


unspiral

by thirixm



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson
Genre: M/M, Recovery, Substance Abuse, florence and anatoly appearing as halluncinations, go away mom im projecting, oh my god they were roommates, post-merano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28759632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirixm/pseuds/thirixm
Summary: He doesn't remember who gave Walter de Courcy the key to his apartment.
Relationships: Walter de Courcey/Frederick Trumper
Kudos: 7





	unspiral

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this somewhere between 2-3am while on a caffeine kick and then finished it when I woke up dazed and confused so the end might be seem a little rushed. Hope it's enjoyable nonetheless <3

Freddie’s existence is beginning to feel revolting.

He can’t estimate how long it’s been since he returned from home from Merano, but it’s been long enough to where it’s beginning to become a haze.

Or it’s from all the smoking and drinking.

To be quite honest, he can’t remember the last blissful moment he was sober, either. He wondered if it mattered. Sergievsky took his title, swooned his second; he can have his damn sobriety too. He gets whatever he wants with raging ease.

He wonders, and wonders. Wonders what he’d say if he witnessed Freddie rotting on his couch, feeling worthless with the situation he started in the first place. Bottles and piles of takeout crowd his apartment and the sun gets brighter it seems. When he sees Sergievsky, he’s laughing at him and telling him he deserves it. He wants to punch him, but Florence is the same. She doesn’t laugh, though, just stares at him with calculating eyes. He waves them away.

He doesn’t remember who gave Walter de Courcy the key to his apartment. He barely registers his presence when he’s on the floor, face on the couch and trying to gather whatever coherent thought he has left. It’s all static until Walter greets him.

He lifts his head up, heavy like a burden, he’s pretty sure it’s a hangover. He vaguely recognizes him, but the blinds are drawn and it’s dark, he’s almost certain he’s like Sergievsky and Florence, but he can smell the scent of cologne above the smoke. Then he crouches down and touches a hand on his shoulder and his entire body jerks away.

“Freddie, I’m worried about you,” he says.

He hasn’t been able to remember a lot of things, recently, like when Walter helps him up and moves him to his bed, but he can feel the mattress soft underneath him. Everything in him is telling him to tell Walter to leave, but being able to feel him and confirm his realness is a lot better than being watched by the defected pair. He doesn’t scold him, either, and Freddie considers that a plus.

He comes to his senses in the following weeks, not sure if he’s completely sober, but enough to not feel like he banged himself up every morning. 

He doesn’t know how long Walter has been around. Sometimes they have lunch together, but Freddie often has no appetite. They don’t talk, but at some point he put the pieces in place and realized he was there to keep him in line. He laughs when he finds out because he can still see Sergievsky waiting for him to spiral again. He’s waiting too.

“You still play?” Walter asks one day.

Freddie was certain he threw his chessboard away but he must’ve dug it out of the trash.

“No,” he says. “Just… in my head.” He’s not as good as he used to be, but his mind hasn't been clear for a while. Walter offers a smile.

They play. Freddie has to explain to him the rules, but he never rushes him when he presses his palms to his eyes to collect his thoughts. It’s one of the things he likes about his presence. It’s gentle, like a guiding hand on his back.

It doesn’t make up for the fact that Walter caught his king in a simple mating tactic. He can’t say he’s impressed when he’s too busy reprimanding himself.

“You’re still good,” Walter says despite it.

“You’re hardly near my rating anymore,” he hears Sergievsky’s voice. He wants to tell him to shut up, but all he does is look away. “How long are you going to let this go on?”

“I had a job proposition for you,” he says.

“Not taking it,” Freddie says as he leaves the couch and grabs his cigarettes. “You’re wasting your damn time here if that’s all you’re here for.”

Walter doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t leave either. He’s infuriating sometimes, but not like Florence. She used to argue with him a lot - nitpicked the littlest things. Walter, on the other hand, didn’t care if his hair grew too long or if he became increasingly stubborn and difficult to deal with. He was hard work and Walter worked him with ease.

“Then how about lunch?”

He doesn’t eat. He blows smoke away from himself and sits uncomfortably in the silence, paying attention to the occasional traffic outside. He mulls over the prospect of getting a job while he does. It doesn’t ultimately interest him but he thinks it might be beneficial to do something other than waste his life.

“When’s the next championship?” he asks.

“Couple of months away, in Bangkok.”

Couple of months. Nearly a year went by and all he remembered was a fog. He shifts, bringing his knees up to his chest and murmurs with an attempt to hold onto his dignity, “I’ll take the job.”

He still smokes, still drinks when he feels himself get irritable. His head begins to clear and the next time he plays chess, he tangles his companion in complicated, elegant moves. He’s still waiting for himself to spiral, and maybe he’s had a few slip ups, but his world is grounded by Walter.

He doesn’t remember who let Walter de Courcy in his bed. When he has the capacity to gain spatial awareness, Walter is next to him in bed with his back turned to him. All he knows is that he doesn’t have a guest room and his couch is filthy. He guesses it’s for the better.

Then he stops comparing him to Florence because she used to be the only caring figure in his life, but Walter tells him his hair looks nice when it’s long and smiles when he gloats at a checkmate. He doesn’t remember when he started kissing his temple every morning and reading the news to him. When Freddie looks at himself in the mirror, he doesn’t look near like hell when he did after Merano. He doesn’t need Walter to take care of him anymore as much as he did, but he’s still sticking around.

“I have a gift for you,” he says. He’s carrying a cream looking bag with the imprint of a name Freddie thinks he recognizes but not completely. 

“Already? You’ve only been here for a month or something. Think we’re moving a little too fast.” He grins when he rolls his eyes away to prevent himself from looking amused.

“It’s a professional gift, for your first day at Global.”

The bag is sat down on the coffee table in front of him and Freddie leans up to reach into it. It’s a box the same colour as the bag, tied in a silk black ribbon.

“Little fancy for a professional gift,” he says despite the fact that his chest is fluttering. He undoes the ribbon and lifts the lid from the box, revealing a neatly folded, pristine, white suit. It’s pure, and looks too clean for it to be dirtied with his touch.

He’s still in awe when Walter reaches into his pocket. “And this,” he says, pulling out a smaller box, enough to hold in his palm. “Is a personal gift.” He can’t say it’s much, but Freddie already looks like he’s approaching tears.

When he opens it, a small watch meets his eye, mainly black in colour but accented in gold. It’s simple, and maybe not worth almost spilling tears for, but he can’t remember the last time someone bought him anything. Maybe he does start crying, and Walter ends up holding him for hours.

He knows he has to face Sergievsky for real and manage to not blow up in his face. He knows he’ll have to see Florence again and not let his heart ache, especially when they’re side by side and probably happier than he will ever be, but every surface of his skin is brandished by Walter’s lips and he doesn’t think he gives a damn about what happens to them anymore.

He doesn’t remember who gave Walter the key to his apartment, but he never asks for it back. It gets added to a bunch of other keys he never sees him use. He’s the one who locks the door when they leave for Bangkok, then clutches it in his palm when they’re ready to go, and Freddie knows he’ll be the one to unlock the door when they’re ready to return home together.


End file.
